


the weight of the world (is you in the mornings)

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, future!fic, hypergravity, lots of science handwaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10053470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Some things come easy.(or, bokuto works out, kuroo pines, and oikawa refuses to let volleyball become a relic of the past)





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Puck. Reading your prompts was such a delight - I hope this fits at least a little bit of what you asked after! If not, there's a short TenSemi side-story after that I hope will do the trick >.< Thank you for giving me the opportunity to write this!
> 
> A huge thanks to escanormusic and hijackedbylou on Tumblr for being wonderful beta readers and inspiration-finders!

His phone erupts in a cacophony of noise, startling him into consciousness, and out of reflex he gasps his first breath against the crushing weight on his chest.

It’s all he needs to know.

“Oh, _come on_.” Kuroo upends Bokuto off his chest, off the futon, onto the ice-cold floor where he belongs. It’s not an easy task. Bokuto’s heavy; Kuroo’s out of shape – he winces when his elbows crack from the effort. “It’s hard enough to get a decent breath of air in this place without you dumping your six-ton pecs onto my stomach.”

Bokuto moans sleepily in response. His arms shoot out and latch around Kuroo’s waist, hugging tight enough to crack a rib or two. Prying him off would take more effort than Kuroo can spare at six in the morning, so Bokuto gets a kick to the shin instead. “Ow!”

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

“Love you too,” Bokuto grumbles, all too casual – there’s no reason for him to take the endearment as anything besides their usual jest. It’s only got a few thousand lovesick conversations behind it, a decade or so of fruitless pining. Nothing at all, really, and if Kuroo doesn’t think about it, he won’t sound shifty enough for Bokuto to start wondering.

Five minutes later, Bokuto’s still on the floor, Kuroo’s still in his pyjamas, and if they’re not quick about it they’ll miss out on pancakes for breakfast. “Not on my watch,” Kuroo mutters, and kicks Bokuto again.

“ _Kuroo,_ ” Bokuto whines – or would whine, were his words not muffled by the pillow thrown over his face. It comes out sounding more like _mmmrphgsh_ , which upon further reflection, could stand for _go away,_ or _five more minutes_ , or even _hey, Kuroo, I’ve been thinking, and you’re actually one hot piece of best boyfriend material_. The last one is unlikely, but Kuroo lives for the improbable. He needs the hope, stuck waking up day after day to Bokuto’s drooling face without the option of smothering it in kisses.

When Bokuto shuffles into the bathroom, Kuroo breathes again, long and slow – reorients himself, to the smooth flooring under and the empty ceiling above; to the reality of it, too far still to brush with his fingers, even if he stands on his toes and reaches.

His phone buzzes again.

 _Wakey wakey,_ Oikawa’s avatar chimes, blessedly rendered mute through the highly advanced technological power of text messaging, and Kuroo allows himself an open laugh at the string of emojis that follows. He holds the phone up to snap a shot of Bokuto brushing his teeth zealously over in the bathroom. _Sleeping beauty tried his best to make us miss pancakes_ , he types in response.

 _Ooh, did you kiss him awake?_ _(´ >ω∂`)_

Kuroo’s throat clenches. _Loving kicks_ is all he can manage before he has to stop. He takes another breath, waiting for his hands to still. Thankfully, there are no further notifications.

“I’m gonna borrow your hair stuff,” Bokuto yells at him, garbling commentary through a hurried routine of shaving cream and hair wax. His hands are sticky after; he wipes them in Kuroo’s hair and pats him on the head. “All set,” he says proudly, setting his hands on his hips.

“Tell Oikawa we’ll see him at breakfast,” Kuroo says, stumbling onto his feet and heading to the bathroom himself. He grabs a towel and swats Bokuto with it on the way, cackling at the resulting yelp of pain.

Six fifteen. The pancake lines starts at six twenty; morning disruptions aside, they’re right on schedule. Bokuto’s surprisingly predictable for someone so animated; Kuroo basks in the familiarity of it, the way he used to love volleyball practice in the mornings. His heart is heavy, or full, or both; it’s hard to breathe, but Kuroo is accustomed to this, too.

 

*

 

It hasn’t always been Bokuto crushing him to death before his eyes blink open at sunrise. Two months back, Kuroo’s phone shrieks in his ears and he groans, _ugh,_ clutching the sheets tighter around himself. It shrills a couple more time before he manages to stub his finger on the screen to silence it, too late to stop the headache building around his eyes. There are always a couple of minutes in the mornings where he still feels the pressure band on his skull, reminding him as surely as the breaths he struggles to take.

They still debate the topic on Saturday night holovision. Kuroo’s watch lights up with the notification at six PM every week, but lately he’s been dismissing it without a glance. Nothing new has been discussed in the past three months; he’s long since memorised the oversimplified diagrams and technical terms they throw around as a substitute for proper explanation.

Kenma would tell him about conspiracies, had he not been one of the first off the planet, him and Yaku and Hinata, deemed worthy by a hastily-put-together assortment of arbitrary characteristics – small and light; fit and healthy. They’d been bright and optimistic as ever upon departure, which means Yaku had yelled at Kuroo when he went in for a hug, and Kenma had been decidedly unimpressed with the tears. “We’ll probably be back soon,” he’d assured Kuroo. “Don’t die without me.”

“Kenma,” Kuroo had whimpered, heightening his voice in a poor pastiche of a lover farewelling their beau at a twentieth-century train station. Weak humour is still preferable to the alternative; at times Kuroo wonders at the resilience of human beings, at their ability to rise up even as the world falls around them.

Kuroo had been training at the time, standing at the net with his eyes locked on Bokuto’s palm. The spike connects, the ball flying down, and Kuroo jumps, ready to intercept –

– and then he’s crashing, unprepared, the sting of the landing shooting straight to his knees. Around him, his teammates pant with shoulders heaving; heavy breaths – _Too heavy_ , Kuroo thinks. _This isn’t normal; it’s only a regular practice. What –_

Their coach collapses on the bench, clutching his stomach, and suddenly Tokyo’s on lockdown; _everywhere_ is on lockdown, and there are far more important matters to worry about than volleyball.

 _The world is burning_ , headlines say, sporting pictures of buildings collapsing, birds littering the streets.

As it turns out, this is a rather literal statement.

 

*

 

It’s also a pitiful exaggeration. What Kuroo learns, through repetitive news broadcasts and viral social media posts, is that a meteor has obliterated a small farming town in China, burrowing itself deep into the core of the earth and liquefying there. According to gravitational theory, an increase this huge in the relative mass of the planet should send it (and thereby its population) spinning out of orbit, yet to the surprise of every scientist on the planet, a tenuous safety holds for hours, then days, then weeks. After a month, they pronounce, with much confusion, that the earth appears to be stable for the time being, and life goes on – with caveats.

 _Half the volleyball team from Miyagi’s gone missing_ , Kuroo hears, his heart dropping to his stomach, and though Kenma tells him _Shouyou’s okay, Karasuno didn’t lose anyone_ they still know there are people lost. Kuroo reads their names in Volleyball Monthly – he even recognises some of them: _Best Setter, Guess Blocker_. They take up a corner of a page in every issue, a couple of contact numbers squashed in below descriptions that read almost like obituaries.

Naturally there are changes outside the sports circuit, too. People seem smaller, _are_ smaller, with Japan’s average height rebounding from below world average back to decidedly short, and plants follow suit. There’s a lot of fuss the first few months, when unsteady tree branches gradually give in and sloppy construction work manifests several decades late. The government issues warnings and posts clean-up crews; buildings are routinely inspected for risk.

“It’s so weird,” Bokuto says, wrinkling his nose and pointing at the empty sky. “You just think, _Tokyo Tower used to be here,_ you know? D’you know what happened over in Shinjuku yesterday? I’ll get the video up; it’s _intense_ , dude, you can see the thing swaying and then it just goes, like paper or something – ”

Five months after the event, Kuroo’s grandmother passes away. The media covers no small number of similar cases – this is the catalyst for heavy investment in medical research: _increased physiological stress induced by hypergravity; a meta-analysis of the effects of hypergravity on cardiovascular function_. The recruitment drives are notably proactive, luring athletes with promises of high payouts and lofty moral status, but even without the incentives most prospective participants – _Kenma, Yaku, Hinata_ – jump at the chance to be able to, well, jump normally again.

It’s not impossible. But it no longer feels like flying. Doesn’t look it, either – people lose balance halfway; they’re thrown by the ground rushing at them faster than they expect, the comparison always lurking at the back of their minds: _we were capable of this, before._ Watching them attempt is an exercise in frustration.

Some sports survive: basketball, for instance, drawing crowds with quick-steps and dribbles instead of layups and dunks, the arched backs of its competitors still iconic on holos all around the country. Ground sports like hockey and football thrive on lighter balls and speedier pucks; motorsport has never been more popular.

Volleyball is all about the lift-off, about the sun-like lights of the hall blinding your eyes as you look up to a wing spiker floating on air. Already a struggling sport in Japan, it peters out elsewhere, too, abandoned in favour of better pay-checks, and so Kuroo’s grudging backup serves its worth when he, along with the bulk of active players, switches to a science stream instead. Engineers and architects are in _massive_ demand following the collapse of about a fifth of all buildings around the world. The resulting rubble is mostly recycled to new, sturdier constructions; gone is the lofty Tokyo skyline, replaced by wide, flat compounds and a deeper underground. The exponential curve of technological growth travels steeper than ever.

Kuroo graduates with honours and joins a compound on the outskirts of the twenty-three wards. It has a focus on sustainability, featuring both indoor and outdoor farms in addition to a rooftop covered entirely in solar panels. As a bonus, the residential wing comes equipped with a pretty nice gym; a fair few ex-athletes have taken up residence here, employed in physical jobs around the farm.

Most importantly, they let him bring Bokuto. A small concession, on their part, but Bokuto has no backup plan. He clings to his sports scholarship until it’s revoked, then plays for a local team until that disbands. These days, he’s in the gym most hours of the day, training small groups to strengthen their legs and straighten their backs. This isn’t pointless work, per se; it’s merely that the compound Kuroo joins is a technical company first and a residential area second; it’s neither a hospital nor a rehabilitation centre. It’s certainly not an athletics facility, so were it not for Akaashi, presiding over the financial aspect of Bokuto’s profession with the same exasperated fondness that had characterised their relationship during their school years, Kuroo doubts their application would have been accepted. “This is typical of Bokuto-san,” Akaashi tells Kuroo when stops by to express his gratitude. “He won’t stop to think about it.”

Sure enough, Bokuto never questions their good fortune. Instead, he shuffles around the gym with shining eyes and snags all the meat at dinner. “ _Bokuto-san,_ ” Akaashi snaps irritably, somehow managing to sound far more threatening than Kuroo’s raging _BOKUTO, YOU SON OF A – GET BACK HERE, I WILL CHOKE THAT TENDERLOIN OUT OF YOU IF I HAVE TO_. Neither approach works.

Kuroo mourns the loss of his honey-marinated beef, but otherwise, he’d say life’s pretty alright, the way things are. “Not dead yet,” he tells Kenma smugly during one of their calls.

“Yes, I can see that.” Kenma stopped being irritated months ago; now he just sighs, slipping his VR goggles over his head and sinking deeper into his seat. “What’s up?”

“You’re not even going to pretend to listen, are you?” Kuroo accuses, poking a finger through the holo.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Kuroo rolls back onto his futon and shakes the device. “Talk to me,” he whines. “How are things over there? Any breakthroughs?”

“Check the website,” Kenma says. “Nothing new. They have Shouyou jumping now.”

“What the heck, that’s totally new.” Kuroo can’t say he’s not jealous, not when he hasn’t had both feet off the ground since further back than he can remember.

“Still not as high as before, and it’s probably not all the suit. He’s been working out.”

“So’s Bokuto,” Kuroo offers, grinning, “but you already knew that.” He flips through his camera roll – a few dozen pictures of Bokuto posing for the camera; one masterpiece of him winding down after a particularly good session.

“I’m going to stop listening to you now,” Kenma informs him. “I’ve just found the boss.”

Kuroo knows it’s a lie; they both know it’s a lie. Kenma just doesn’t want to hear Kuroo recite Bokuto’s gym routine for the umpteenth time, and Kuroo doesn’t blame him for that. If he weren’t in love with Bokuto, he wouldn’t want to hear it either.

“His bicep circumference increased again,” starts Kuroo, watching Kenma flap his hands at something in the game – Kuroo assumes; it might just be that Kenma is trying to hurry him up. “I helped him measure it. Kenma, I think he could kill a man with those arms.”

“You’re hopeless,” Kenma comments. “Sorry, I was talking about the game.”

 

*

 

Kuroo’s phone alarm is drilling holes into his brain, but not a minute after he silences it he’s reawakened by a series of sharp knocks and a startlingly familiar voice.

“ _Yahoo_ , rooster head, this is your room, right? It’s me~ Open up, open up~”

 _No way_ , Kuroo thinks. He drags himself to the door, heart bouncing from his stomach to his mouth. Every inch of him screams the situation’s too bizarre to be true – but it _is_.

Oikawa Tooru beams at him from the doorstep. “I’m looking for Iwaizumi Hajime,” he says, looking for all the world like this is a completely normal thing to ask at five in the morning. “Wait, this _is_ Kuroo Tetsurou, right? What on earth happened to your hair?”

 _What didn’t happen to yours_ , Kuroo wants to ask. Oikawa’s floats around his head exactly how Kuroo remembers it, spruced up by Volleyball Monthly for that one article about up-and-coming setters in the U-18 division. Nobody looks like that these days. Even Kuroo’s gravity-defying bedhead has bowed in submission; it now lies equally messy around his ears. Bokuto stubbornly insists on keeping the owl look, but that only happens at great personal and financial cost; his hair feels like plastic half the time now. Bokuto insists it’s all part of the look, but honestly, nobody else could have pulled it off. Kuroo’s still not sure whether Bokuto is actually pulling it off. They say love is blind, after all; Bokuto could grow a full mane and Kuroo would still want to touch it. And the plastic feel is kind of nice. Sometimes. To a given definition of nice.

Oikawa, though – Oikawa looks _young_. Not the same, not – he’s changed, for sure, but he looks twenty, the way someone that age would have looked back when birds flew high as the clouds. Hypergravity hastens the ageing process; nobody knows how much by yet, but everyone wonders some nights whether they’ll reach forty.

“Haven’t you read the news?” Kuroo blurts out, because the last he’d heard Oikawa Tooru had been in Shanghai at the time, travelling with the rest of the volleyball team; Kuroo knows because he knows that section of Volleyball Monthly by heart; he knows because he talks to Semi and Iwaizumi sometimes and he can’t forget the look on Semi’s face when he said _Tendou and Oikawa didn’t come back with the rest of the team_ , can’t forget the way Iwaizumi’s voice had dipped when he said _Apparently they were planning to go to some country town; probably Oikawa’s idea; the idiot._

 _So you do know his name_ , Kuroo teased gently. Iwaizumi had sent him a sort of grimace, shot back _Trashykawa’s more accurate_ like everything was all normal. Kuroo still sees Iwaizumi flinch sometimes at nothing in particular – memories, probably. For months after Kenma had left Kuroo’s thoughts had run wild every time he’d seen anything remotely related to computer games, but at least Kuroo can talk to Kenma over the holo, send him links and pictures, and at least Kuroo knows where Kenma is, if not the specifics of what he’s doing. At least Kuroo knows, as much as he can trust, that Kenma is safe; still alive – _not dead_ , they always joke, but there’s a sincerity to that confirmation, under everything.

Sometimes Kuroo sits and listens to Iwaizumi talk about Oikawa in a different context – Oikawa when he was still present, corporeal and tangible, the huff of his laughter warm on Iwaizumi’s cheek on the way home from school; Oikawa when he was too loud to ignore, yelling high-pitched protests that cracked halfway through in middle school. There’s this thing about affection that makes it hurt, just listening; Kuroo’s heart always feels bruised after. In the years he’s known Iwaizumi, it’s as if he’s come to know Oikawa, too, in all the ways he was – at his most infuriating, but also at his best, leaping up to crush volleyballs through their opponents’ legs.

Oikawa – actual living, breathing, present at-hand – is talking non-stop; something useless, no doubt. _This isn’t important_ , Kuroo thinks, not with Iwaizumi’s glass-eyed expression still fresh in his memory. He puts his hands on Oikawa’s shoulders and turns him around – _still_ talking; it’s unbelievable. “Iwaizumi’s going to _murder_ you,” he breathes.

Oikawa laughs as Kuroo marches him down the hallway; clear and light; the small of his back is so very delicate against Kuroo’s fingertips. “Iwa-chan _loves_ me,” Oikawa boasts. “I bet he’ll cry.”

Kuroo wisely abandons him outside Iwaizumi’s room, fleeing back to his own corner of the compound before he can get caught in the crossfire. He kicks at Bokuto’s door – _silence_ – and waits only a minute or two before sprinting to the gym, where he finds Bokuto immediately, practising pull-ups in the far corner. It’s a skill he’s more than a little proud of, his ability to pick Bokuto out of a crowd in an instant, and he has to force himself to tamp down on the warmth that spreads through him when Bokuto sees him too.

“Kuroo, my man! ‘Sup?”

It takes Kuroo a second to remember. “Bokuto,” he gasps, half from the run and half from how Bokuto’s holding himself up with one perfect arm, having let go of the bar with the other so he can wave at Kuroo. “Oikawa’s here.”

This time, Bokuto drops to the ground. “No way. Does Iwaizumi know?”

“He will soon,” says Kuroo, and as if on cue, Iwaizumi’s voice comes booming through the compound – _WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE, SHITTYKAWA, HOW DARE YOU COME HERE AFTER SIX YEARS –_

Bokuto whistles, impressed. “I think he’s crying.”

 

*

 

Oikawa is utterly useless. “I’m a volleyball player,” he says when they interview him. Iwaizumi groans in frustration and slaps him on the back of the head.

“Try again.”

“I’m interested in space theory,” Oikawa amends. “I am willing to learn.”

It turns out he’s brought Tendou with him – the Shiratorizawa reconciliation had been considerably less abusive than the Iwaizumi-Oikawa one, so Kuroo only hears about it at lunch. Tendou at least has a place to go – his ex-teammates are all in charge of agriculture, and he essentially says _I just want to go where they are_ , same as they’d all done, following Ushijima from sports to farming as if there was barely a change to make. Kuroo wonders what it is about Ushijima Wakatoshi that inspires such loyalty in his teammates. If Yaku had been half as cooperative as the Shiratorizawa collective, Kuroo’s captaincy would have been a thousand times more peaceful. Less successful, too, in all likelihood, but Kuroo hates admitting when Yaku’s advice is actually reasonable.

 _You should just chuck him out_ , Yaku says, tactless as always, when Kuroo updates him on the situation. If it weren’t for Iwaizumi, this would have happened the moment Oikawa showed up in the dining hall and tried to recruit the entire company for an impromptu volleyball match. Whoever runs the compound must have a soft spot for Iwaizumi – or perhaps they understand, Kuroo considers, remembering his own situation with Bokuto – because instead of being thrown out on his ear, Oikawa ends up a permanent resident, work assignment _pending,_ essentially leeching off Iwaizumi.

“You should just chuck him out,” Kuroo advises, completely of his own accord.

“I consider this every five minutes,” Iwaizumi snarls. Oikawa turns around and sticks out his tongue; Iwaizumi lobs a salt shaker at him.

“So _mean_ , Iwa-chan! Kuro-chan, make him play nice!”

Kuroo holds up his hands. “I’m an innocent bystander. Oi, Bokuto! Over here!”

Bokuto glides across the room to join them, grinning. He squeezes Kuroo’s raised hands and toys with them while Kuroo struggles to regain control of his breathing. Bokuto’s always been big on physical contact; he loves pulling at Kuroo’s fingers, for some reason, bending them back and forth, curling them up only to straighten them out again. “It’s important to do your finger exercises,” he says when asked, wiggling his own in demonstration. This time, he twists Kuroo’s arms like they’re handlebars from a cross-trainer, thrusting them back and forth with practised ease. “What’s up, men?”

“Iwa-chan’s being mean to me.”

“Shittykawa’s being a brat.”

“The usual,” Kuroo says, over the two of them, and Bokuto grins at him.

“Oho? Trouble in paradise?”

Iwaizumi snorts loudly and Oikawa rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to hear that thing from you,” Oikawa says, gaze sweeping from Bokuto to Kuroo and back again.

“Excuse you.” Kuroo extricates his hand from Bokuto’s grasp and places it over his heart in mock offense. “Our relationship is extremely satisfactory, thank you very much.”

Bokuto high fives him. “That’s why you’re gonna give me all your beef, right? I love Szechuan beef.”

“Shove _off_ ,” Kuroo snaps, yanking his plate away, but he’s too slow, and now all he has left for lunch is mildly flavoured rice. “I hate you so much.”

“Love you too, babe.”

“See?” Oikawa says to Iwaizumi. “See how they’re not afraid to express affection?”

Bokuto nudges Oikawa so he can sit between him and Kuroo. “No need to be lonely!” he crows. “Plenty of this guy to go around!”

Oikawa’s gaze is grudgingly appreciative – Kuroo feels both an intense surge of protectiveness and a strange sense of camaraderie; nobody deserves to be appreciated more than Bokuto does. He sidles up closer to Bokuto anyway, under the pretense of trying to push Oikawa off the bench. “Don’t worry,” he tells Oikawa. “Just getting nice and cozy.”

“You’re almost as bad as Iwa-chan,” Oikawa complains, earning himself another salt shaker to the head. “I’m never asking you for help again.”

Kuroo scoffs. “This is slander,” he says. “I am a perfect gentleman. Right, Bokuto?”

Bokuto shrugs, the traitor. “Eh.”

“Bocchan loves me best,” Oikawa gloats, and this time Kuroo really does push him off the bench.

 

*

 

Oikawa’s easy rapport with Bokuto doesn’t last long. Bokuto’s never given up on volleyball, but Oikawa seems unaware that giving up is even an option.

“We should play,” he suggests, at breakfast, after breakfast, almost every minute of the day.

“I don’t know where you’ve been for the past six years,” Kuroo snaps, “but we can’t play volleyball anymore. It’d be a farce of a match.”

“Just _try_ ,” Oikawa insists, like they don’t all know the outcome already. Kuroo wants to reach out and strangle him. Clearly gravity isn’t doing a good enough job of that already; not even six years of modified g-force has managed to squash Oikawa’s mouth shut when it comes to this particular topic.

“Bokuto’s in charge of gym bookings, and you’re not allowed to ask him.”

Oikawa _hisses_. “Why not?”

He doesn’t even know. Nobody can figure out what Oikawa has been up to the past six years; Kuroo has no idea how Oikawa manages to set his hair like that every day, like it’s weightless – like gravity doesn’t affect him at all. Oikawa blabbers on about electromagnetics and attraction, but he’s unable to elaborate when Kuroo quizzes him on the details, so he knows it’s all bull. The world is full of mysteries, and Oikawa Tooru’s the type to cradle them in his palms.

Kuroo likes mysteries, loves untangling them; he’s drawn to people he can pick at. There’s nothing more appealing to him than unravelling their complexities, because it makes what’s underneath seem that much more precious.

But then love is like that, too – never predictable, and somehow Kuroo falls in love with Bokuto, who’s – not _simple_ , not by any means; any human being is a wellspring. The difference is that Kuroo knows Bokuto enough to feel confident in his assertions about Bokuto’s behaviour. He might not be able to stratify risk the way Akaashi can, but he knows how to wake Bokuto in the mornings, how to manage his slumps. Kuroo knows what Bokuto looks like when he’s running on fumes; he’s intimately familiar with Bokuto’s imperfections as a teammate, a friend, a roommate – and he loves him all the more for them.

Invariably, Kuroo will wake up in the morning and roll out of bed, groaning with the effort of it, and shortly after he’ll hear Bokuto screaming through the wall that separates their rooms.

“UrghheeeoowwWCH!”

“Did you drop the dumbbells on your foot again,” Kuroo hollers back; his neighbour on the other side throws something at the wall in complaint.

So Kuroo falls in love over stubbed toes and torn bedsheets, with the expansive presence of Bokuto in his life, and he’ll tear Oikawa to pieces before he lets him see Bokuto about volleyball, because Oikawa knows _nothing_ about how hard Bokuto has been working for that same purpose.

When they’d cancelled his university scholarship Bokuto had moved straight on to club, steely resolve bright in his eyes, but at the fourth changeover he’d been inconsolable for two weeks straight – _is it me,_ he’d asked, clinging to Kuroo’s sleeve with a death-grip. _I can’t do anything. What am I even here for?_

It had taken the combined efforts of Kuroo, Akaashi, all of their ex-teammates still in Tokyo, to help him through, and it had been agony the whole time, watching Bokuto lose track of how to live in his fixation on failures not his own.

Kuroo fell in love with Bokuto in motion – as expressive in his dismay as his elation. Watching him drag each step under a weight he wasn’t used to, famed wings clipped, Kuroo falls all over again for how Bokuto keeps moving, thinks _I love this man_ with every aching step they take together.

“Amazing,” Kuroo breathes, when he realises Oikawa’s still waiting for an answer. “You have absolutely no idea.”

Oikawa has no reason to know. He’s only met post-downer Bokuto, the Bokuto who flexes his arms and leads exercise groups seven days a week with a determination that pre-empts ability. “I’m bulking,” Bokuto says, his sharp-eyed grin never wavering. “One day, see, I’m gonna bend my knees and go into the air like, _bam!_ That’d be cool, wouldn’t it?”

 _You’re damn cool already_ , Kuroo thinks every time, something huge and heavy in his throat.

He wants to see Bokuto play again someday. He wants it with every fibre of his being, to see Bokuto fly the way he used to. Heck, if Kuroo could he’d play himself, however deconditioned he is now. They all miss volleyball.

But Bokuto can’t jump the same way yet, and there’s a reason volleyball failed as a sport; people can’t help comparing it to what they used to have. Bokuto’s exactly the type to do that – it’s why Kuroo’s been encouraging him to take things slow. _Sometimes you have to take a risk_ , Akaashi comments once, watching Kuroo spot Bokuto as he trains.

 _I won’t do it with him_ , Kuroo replies. _Not with Bokuto._

Kuroo hasn’t lost hope that they’ll play again – eventually, when Bokuto is ready. Not now, for nothing but Oikawa’s selfish demands.

“I’ll go to his room and ask him in person,” Oikawa says furiously, and Kuroo sneers, blocking the door with every inch of his slender frame.

“Go ahead and try, because he’s living with me from now on.” And before he can give himself a chance to consider the implications of that, he’s got Bokuto on the other end of a call, huffing _woah, Kuroo, I’m in the middle of a class; is something wrong?_ and Kuroo squeaks, _nothing at all; I’ve got all your stuff; you’re in my room now_.

When Kuroo looks back at Oikawa, he’s biting back a smile. “Nice proposal.”

“Shut up,” Kuroo says, the anger drained out of him because _far out, Bokuto’s his roommate now_. Suddenly he feels like a winner, though Oikawa’s still threatening to go and ruin everything with his outdated illusions of volleyball.

Thankfully, while Oikawa does visit, he’s tactful: whether he’s taken Kuroo into consideration, or whether he’s simply biding his time – Kuroo doesn’t care as long as Bokuto’s happy. _Happy_ , in this case, is a broad term; it’s not long before Oikawa’s penchant for gloating has Bokuto throwing blankets in frustration. They’re both profoundly competitive, to the detriment of game consoles everywhere. Several card games are permanently banned after Oikawa scratches Bokuto hard enough to leave a scar.

Bokuto huffs for hours after, showing off his wound to anyone who dares glance in his direction. “ _Some_ people can’t take a loss,” he sniffs, over Oikawa’s howling _it was an accident!_ behind him.

Even Kuroo relents eventually. “Give the guy a break already; I think he’s repented.”

“I still don’t like him,” Bokuto pouts, crossing his fingers in front of his mouth to make an ‘x’. “This is my volleyball hand.”

Kuroo smiles softly. “For what it’s worth, I’d give you mine if you needed it.”

“Aw, Kuroo.” Bokuto tackles him with a hug. “We’ve gotta play together, though. I need you on my team.”

“Recruit me at your own risk,” laughs Kuroo. “I’ve gotten old.”

“You still look better than hand-mauler Oikawa,” Bokuto grumbles.

Akaashi snorts, repeats the words with an amused smile. “Hand-mauler Oikawa-san.” Akaashi actually _likes_ the lame nicknames Bokuto comes up with; Kuroo knows that one’s definitely coming up the next time they all get together.

“Maybe we can make it a thing,” Kuroo suggests. “We’ll get Tendou to write us a song.”

Bokuto perks up immediately. “Can we sing it in the dining hall when he comes down for dinner?”

“We can sing it any time you want, Kou,” Kuroo says, hoping Bokuto doesn’t catch the softening of his voice.

 

*

 

“I just don’t like him,” Bokuto complains, for what must be the hundredth time this week. It grows less convincing with every iteration, especially after Oikawa presents him with a bouquet of flowers and a nicely written card in apology.

“What’s he done now?” asks Kuroo, rolling an exercise ball over and kicking it in Bokuto’s direction.

Bokuto kicks it back; it bounces past Kuroo and crashes into the wall behind them, ricocheting hard into Kuroo’s thigh. “He didn’t tell me he had a deal with the chefs,” Bokuto says indignantly, while Kuroo collapses onto the ground. “He’s flirted his way into extra dessert on Fridays and he won’t share with anyone. This is an injustice.”

“How d’you spell that?” Kuroo gasps out, still rubbing his hurt leg.

Bokuto shrugs and squats next to him. “Let me, let me! I’ve watched my physio do it like, a million times.” He grabs Kuroo’s leg and starts rubbing vigorously. The friction brings Kuroo almost to tears, but he feels great when Bokuto stops for a rest.

“I think I’m fine now. Cheers.”

Bokuto flashes him a sunshine grin and nudges the offending exercise ball in Kuroo’s direction again. This time, it comes slow enough for Kuroo to get his arms around it; he flops down and drags his toes on the ground, relishing the ever-so-slight buoyancy he feels when it pushes against his stomach.

“You’re supposed to pass it back,” Bokuto yells. Kuroo ignores him.

After a while, Bokuto brings over an exercise ball of his own, a large grey one with owl eyes painted onto it. He rolls slowly against Kuroo, knocking gently into him, then sways back. Kuroo shoves him in retaliation; it’s not long before they’re engaged in an all-out battle, racing to the ball racks for more ammunition. By the time Oikawa arrives for his daily workout, the gym is a warzone.

He stares at the scene with rounded eyes.

“I can explain – “ Kuroo begins, but then Oikawa pushes him hard; Kuroo releases the ball he’s holding in shock and then Oikawa’s upon him, seizing the exercise ball and planting it on Kuroo’s chest, draping himself over it to secure his victory.

“Come get him, Bocchan!” he yells, and Bokuto hollers gleefully, piling on without a thought for Kuroo’s poor bruised lungs. The exercise ball slips out, sending Oikawa elbow-first into Kuroo’s chest, and by the time they manage to extricate themselves from the tangle it’s as if they’ve actually been working out. Bokuto and Oikawa high-five over Kuroo as he doubles over, wheezing.

“I thought you didn’t like him,” Kuroo says, glaring at Bokuto.

“Iwa-chan says the same thing all the time,” Oikawa says dismissively. “Some people have problems being honest about how much they love me.”

“I get you,” Bokuto agrees emphatically; he definitely doesn’t get that Oikawa’s talking about him. “Akaashi barely ever praises me when I ask for it, but I know I’m the favourite senior! Hey, have you guys ever heard anything along those lines? You have, right?? What’ve you heard???”

Kuroo groans. “Shut up, Bokuto.”

 

*

 

“I think I like him,” Bokuto says, a few weeks later, and Kuroo replies instinctively, _tell me something I don’t know_. Watching Bokuto fall in love with someone else is an experience Kuroo could have lived without. Akaashi’s started sending him little snacks – it’s a terribly obvious way of sympathising with Kuroo, and Kuroo is grateful for the thought, but quite frankly all he wants right now is a stiff drink and the ability to erase his own memory.

Except that would mean forgetting how Bokuto looks when he’s nervous, biting his lip as he pushes Oikawa further into a tough stretch, and Kuroo’s too far gone to accept that. As much as it kills Kuroo to stand by and witness it happen, it’s still Bokuto; Kuroo still treasures every rare expression Oikawa manages to draw out – purposely, Kuroo knows, because he recognises the look on Oikawa’s face when they’re all together. Oikawa lights up every time Bokuto starts rambling, no matter the subject. Halfway through Bokuto’s recitation of his workout that day he stumbles over _‘aerobic exercise’_ and Kuroo sees Oikawa melt a second later, fond smile softening his entire countenance.

 _Why did you have to look,_ Kuroo asks himself. He doesn’t want to know the answer.

Life would be easier if he could hate Oikawa. At least then Kuroo would have a target to blame for his predicament. Even taking Bokuto out of the equation, Kuroo has enough receipts to stretch a grudge out for a few decades at least. Oikawa still corners him about volleyball; Kuroo’s gotten great at deflecting, but it still accounts for a good portion of wasted minutes every day. Then there’s the Oikawa Special Menu he’s wrangled out of the chefs; Kuroo would _kill_ to know how Oikawa’s managed to make cream puffs a staple breakfast item. If Kuroo could find it in himself to resent Oikawa, he could shove his deepening misery together with all the other reasons he sympathises with Iwaizumi’s violent tendencies and be done with it.

Unfortunately, one reason Kuroo finds Bokuto so wonderful is that their tastes often align. Oikawa is never boring – he’s stubborn, and he doesn’t break easily, but he’ll always react when Kuroo pushes, and so Kuroo finds himself drawn ever further into Oikawa, caught up in casual conversation and meandering arguments that never resolve.

Perhaps this is why Kuroo allows Oikawa to drag him into corners on a daily basis. Oikawa cycles through approximately eight different scripts outlining why Kuroo should speak to Bokuto about organising a volleyball match sometime. His eyes gleam almost manic when he speaks; his arms windmill in his desperation. His breath lingers hot on Kuroo’s ear, his palms clammy around Kuroo’s wrists, and every time Kuroo has to stop himself leaning in, transfixed by the movement of Oikawa’s mouth as he pleads his hopeless case.

“It’s not going to happen,” he says instead, watching Oikawa still.

“Please,” Oikawa says quietly, and this throws Kuroo, because Oikawa has never begged so seriously before.

“It won’t be good for anyone,” Kuroo tells him. “I’m saying this for your sake, too. It won’t be the same.”

Oikawa exhales, long and slow. Shutters fall over his eyes as he steps back. “Think about it, at least.”

There’s a weight on Kuroo’s chest that he’s not accustomed to, watching Oikawa wander out of sight. “Okay,” he says, too late. “I’ll think about it.”

He runs into Oikawa that evening, purely out of coincidence. It’s good timing, though, so Kuroo taps him on the shoulder and holds up the keys he’s borrowed from Bokuto. “I’m not going to get everyone’s hopes up unless you can convince me this is actually doable,” Kuroo says. “We’ve tried lowered nets and smaller courts; things just aren’t the same. There’s nothing fun about having to play handball when you receive.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Oikawa says. He hasn’t smiled since he saw the keys glinting in Kuroo’s hand. The atmosphere about him is crushing; Kuroo thinks he understands now why Oikawa used to be called _the Grand King_.

He still doesn’t understand how Oikawa can be so sure about this. “If there’s a plan, you haven’t told me.”

“It’s volleyball,” Oikawa says simply. “We’ll do things as per usual.”

Kuroo’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The mere fact he has nails long enough for that reminds him all over again that things have changed. “We haven’t done things the way you think is ‘usual’ in six years.”

Oikawa stops. He turns to Kuroo, head tilted, and suddenly Kuroo is acutely aware of each strand of hair sitting perfectly in place on Oikawa’s head, springing up in a wave untouched by any form of gravitational pressure. “Do you believe in aliens?” Oikawa asks, as if this is the logical continuation of their conversation.

“What?”

Oikawa laughs. “I thought so,” he says; empty words, and his laugh is equally hollow. _Even his soul is lighter_ , Kuroo realises, struck with the sudden urge to grab Oikawa and pin him to the ground.

They’re silent the rest of the way. Kuroo unlocks the old storeroom with the strangest sense of foreboding. Oikawa breezes past him and picks up a volleyball, brushing the dust off almost reverently. “Come here.” He beckons Kuroo closer, whispers, _can you feel it._ His hair curls soft around his ears; a mystery, as always, and –

Kuroo breathes: _in, out, in_.

It’s easy.

“You can tell, can’t you,” Oikawa demands. In that moment, Kuroo wants nothing more than to punch him in the face. He wants to slam the storeroom door shut with Oikawa still inside, leave him there with all the useless equipment rusting away out of sight. He wants Oikawa to disappear – all of Kuroo roars in fury because Bokuto has worked so hard and in this single moment Oikawa is bringing it all to naught, but at the same time two things are clear to him, as surely as the miracle that has just occurred:

  1. He is incapable of truly hating Oikawa.
  2. He cannot keep this from Bokuto.



“ _How_?” Kuroo asks helplessly, but Oikawa simply presses the volleyball into Kuroo’s hands.

“Let’s play,” he says, so gentle, and all Kuroo can do is follow.

 

*

 

Standing out of hypergravity is like coming up after a long dive; Kuroo’s head spins round at how _light_ he is. His very mind feels ready to burst out of his skull and rise out of the atmosphere; each step throws him off-balance in a way he’s not accustomed to. He forces himself to bite down on the questions filling his mouth – Oikawa won’t answer them, and Kuroo couldn’t care less right now anyway. There’s so much else he _can_ do, again, after years and years of clenching his hands and pretending he doesn’t miss the feel of the ball at his fingertips.

Walking out of hypergravity feels like flying; Kuroo bounces off every step he takes. Oikawa, beside him, is strangely placid, gazing at Kuroo with the sort of smug smile that would usually make Kuroo want to smack it off him.

(Iwaizumi’s clearly been an influence on him.)

“Ten-Ten and I took one of the volleyballs with us,” Oikawa starts, conversationally, leaping up to ground a solid serve at Kuroo’s feet. “We’d toy with it on the buses, trying to spin it like a basketball. Like we had a tiny planet on our fingers.”

Kuroo hasn’t the breath to reply. He’s been running around picking up all of Oikawa’s plays because Oikawa sure isn’t giving him a chance to receive. Kuroo’s old pride as a defence specialist is starting to feel very wounded indeed. “Great,” he grunts, smacking the ball right into Oikawa’s waiting palm.

“We didn’t even notice anything was wrong until we got back from our morning hike,” Oikawa continues, his voice taking on an almost sour timbre. “The whole village was flattened and the buses weren’t working. It took ages to get everything running again.”

It occurs to Kuroo that Oikawa is attempting to explain himself. “Oikawa, it’s fine.”

“Shut up and listen,” Oikawa snaps, sounding a little more like his normal self again. “Gosh, Kuroo, you’ll never be popular if you keep cutting in like that.”

“Aren’t you the expert,” retorts Kuroo, more because he thinks Oikawa expects it than out of actual irritation.

“I could be watering plants with Ten-Ten and Ushiwaka right now. We got pretty good at it, back there.”

Kuroo’s patience has a limit, and Oikawa is forever stepping past it. “So?” he demands, fed up with the way Oikawa won’t stop baiting him. “Surely it didn’t take you six years to get to a place where you could, say, make a phone call. Your family must have been worried sick.”

Oikawa’s eyes drop to the volleyball in his hands, faded blue and yellow, a company name that no longer exists. “I don’t know,” he admits, finally. “We thought there’d been an earthquake or something. There was barely anyone left to explain things to us, and we wouldn’t have been able to understand anyway. All we knew was that we had no way back to the others, and there was no reception – our phones wouldn’t connect.” He spins the ball in his hands: smooth, practised motions. “We had a map, but we weren’t about to run off into the middle of nowhere, especially with the roads half-gone. There was this guy who used to go to the markets somewhere nearby, so we followed him and found that pretty much the same thing had happened there too. No search parties ever came looking for us, and I guess we figured…”

Kuroo can’t follow this thought process at all; he can’t imagine leaving his parents and his friends and Kenma and Bokuto wondering what had happened to him. “Figured what?” he asks, regretting it slightly when Oikawa hunches over, shadows flitting across his face. He bumps the ball up in the air, catches it again.

“I guess we figured there might not be anything for us to go home to.”

Six years is a long time. It’s a long time, and Oikawa still looks young, still closer to the teen he was than the adults they’ve all grown into. It hasn’t just been Iwaizumi missing Oikawa, Semi missing Tendou; there’s a reason Oikawa seems stuck in time, maladapted to a world without volleyball and all the other structures he grew up around.

The net separating them is too tall a barrier to climb. Kuroo wants to slip under it instead and – shake Oikawa, or something. Maybe hug him, after. “There was, though,” he says, knowing the words are an inadequate response to what Oikawa has just admitted to.

“I know that _now_ ,” says Oikawa tetchily. “But at the time it was just me and Ten-Ten and whoever was left in the village. Our visas would have been invalid by the time we managed to make contact, anyway; we didn’t know what to do, and you can’t imagine how hard it is not being able to look things up on your phone, Kuroo; I must have had withdrawal symptoms the first few weeks. I kept typing out texts and forgetting they wouldn’t send.”

The ball sails over the net – an easy receive, this time. Kuroo catches it on his wrists and sends it back in a high arc over Oikawa’s head. “My bad.”

“You’re out of touch,” Oikawa scolds. “Ten-Ten and I didn’t have much to do other than play. In our free time, that is; we had to work so hard trying to keep what was left of the farms viable! But I think we have a knack for it, you know? Everything we tended to grew up taller than the other plants; I bet I could grow better daikon than Ushiwaka.”

“That’s your – thing,” Kuroo grumbles, gesturing between them. “I don’t know how you’re doing it, but it’s _weird._ ”

“Do you want to know?”

Kuroo pauses, considering. “Nah,” he says, just to see Oikawa squawk in indignation. “If you want to tell me, you can.”

“I certainly won’t _now_ ,” Oikawa huffs, slamming a serve down the back corner of Kuroo’s court in retaliation. “Point to Oikawa~!”

“Oh, are we playing for points now?” Kuroo serves, gently, a casual tap of his fist, and the ball falls just over the net, far from where Oikawa is still standing with that smug smirk on his face. “Point to me~”

“Unfair!” Oikawa yells, running up to take it. “Kuroo, that’s mean!”

“You started it,” Kuroo points out.

“I need a team,” Oikawa complains. “Watacchi would have picked that up.” His voice catches, suddenly, steps falling out of rhythm. “I need my team,” he says again, staring at the volleyball. “Kuroo, I came back because I recognised your ugly flattened bedhead on a pamphlet in an electronics store when Ten-Ten and I were finally able to visit a slightly bigger city, and you said in that interview that you had friends involved in that jumping program over on the Space Station, and that Bokuto held training sessions so he could be part of a volleyball team again, and I want that. Ten-Ten might be happy just being back with everyone but you’re still waiting, aren’t you? You and Bokuto both.”

Kuroo always figured Oikawa was the type to pull others along with him, and maybe it’s true; it’s always Oikawa making suggestions – terrible suggestions, but suggestions all the same – and it’s always Oikawa wanting, selfishly, things that others have learned to give up on. But the more Kuroo feels the pulse of Oikawa’s serves reflecting off his wrist, the more Kuroo serves high, watching Oikawa’s eyes fixate on the ball through the artificial lighting scattered across the ceiling – the more he thinks that maybe it isn’t true after all.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Oikawa pulls, but he needs the weight, too. _The type that needs to be earthed_ , Kuroo thinks, remembering Iwaizumi, laughing – _he was such an idiot, in middle school; I had to stop him punching Kageyama this one time._ _He kept forgetting we were there to follow on from him._

Oikawa is a leader in want of a team. And perhaps he’s what Kuroo has been waiting for – a catalyst, unafraid to push Bokuto, trusting that Bokuto will fly.

“Okay,” Kuroo concedes, watching Oikawa’s eyes grow wide, luminous. “You’ll get your team.”

 

*

 

It takes him a while to round everyone up. _Why does a team need six players,_ he finds himself wondering, left stumped after Semi turns him down for Wednesday because ‘he has to ask Wakatoshi first’.

“He won’t say no,” Kuroo says in exasperation. “It’s _Ushijima_.”

“I didn’t think it’d take you this long to give in, either,” retorts Semi, which shuts Kuroo up very effectively, because _hey_ , he had excellent reasons to refuse Oikawa. In the first place, _Oikawa_ was the one making unreasonable demands; Kuroo’s just been trying to look out for everyone, here – “Bokuto’s been chomping at the bit wondering when he’ll get a turn.”

“ _What?_ ” yelps Kuroo. “He hasn’t said anything to me at all.”

Semi’s not a bad guy – a bit abrasive, but at least he’ll tell things as they are. “You seemed pretty touchy about it. He didn’t want to push.”

“Somebody slap me,” Kuroo says, still in shock. “I’ve been an idiot.”

He sends Bokuto off with Oikawa that evening, discreetly, because well, everything’s out in the open already, isn’t it? If Bokuto’s happy, Kuroo is hardly going to stand in his way. Besides, as much as Oikawa has been an insufferable thorn in Kuroo’s side about volleyball these past few weeks, he’s been a rose in every other aspect – and he cares for Bokuto. That alone makes Kuroo fond of him.

On further consideration, Kuroo is the only one missing reciprocated feelings in this situation. _Great_.

“Have fun,” he tells them, unable to keep the surly tone from his voice. Now they’re going to bond with each other over volleyball. Eventually Oikawa will jump serve his way into Bokuto’s heart and they’ll be insufferably happy for ages, and Bokuto will ask to move out of his and Kuroo’s room, leaving Kuroo with nobody but a half-distracted Kenma to talk to.

Bokuto hesitates at the door. “Kuroo, if you have a problem…”

“Tecchan’s just mad I was right,” Oikawa says cheerily, taking Bokuto’s hands. “Come on, you’re going to love this.”

 _I’m sure he will,_ Kuroo thinks bitterly, and proceeds to call Akaashi so they can mope together in his room for the next four hours. Bokuto comes rushing in while they’re halfway through a tragic soap opera involving two women and a cheese wheel.

“It’s like I was flying again,” Bokuto enthuses, his eyes shimmering. “Oikawa was so cool – though I think I was cooler. His tosses are great, Kuroo – not like Akaashi’s, of course; you’re the best, Akaashi! But they were still amazing! It felt like I could go _bam!_ on every single one!”

“I’ll come watch you next time,” Kuroo says. He must be a masochist.

But Bokuto’s entire body lights up, and Kuroo can’t help thinking, _worth it_. “You’re awesome, Kuroo. You should join us! Akaashi too!”

“Of course,” Akaashi says with a smile. “I believe super-slow Kuroo-san is trying to arrange a practice match.”

“It’s Shiratorizawa,” Kuroo says irritably. “They only want to play with each other, because apparently they’re the best team.”

“That’s silly,” Bokuto declares. “We’re clearly the best team – us three and Oikawa, and Iwaizumi, and maybe that guy from the other engineering block; what was his name again?”

“Matsukawa?” Kuroo suggests. “He went to Seijou too.”

“Yeah, him! We have the most awesome talks about burgers and stuff when he comes to the gym.”

“I don’t know about Oikawa being part of this ‘best team’,” Kuroo cuts in, before Bokuto can go on about that one time he went to a conveyor belt steak restaurant again. “He never even made it to Nationals.”

“Yeah,” says Bokuto, flippantly, “but I can jump, like, five times higher when I’m with him.”

“I highly doubt that,” Akaashi comments.

“Not _literally_ ,” Bokuto whines, throwing his arms around Kuroo. His breath flickers hot across Kuroo’s cheek. “He’s just _cool_ , you know? And his hair is so fluffy; I wanna know his secrets.”

Kuroo pries him off gently. “You’re not replacing me, are you?” he asks Bokuto, a hint of real worry in his tone. “Now that I don’t have the bedhead, I’m not good enough for you?”

Bokuto’s eyes widen. “Oh, _no_ , you’re my best man, you know that? I love you the most.”

“What about me?” asks Akaashi. “I thought I was the best.”

“Shove off,” Kuroo laughs, watching Bokuto jump up, his arms windmilling in his haste to explain himself.

“You’re different, Akaashi!” He smashes their cheeks together, nuzzling Akaashi with exuberant affection. “They’re just them,” – _Oi,_ Kuroo protests, only to be thoroughly ignored – “but you’re _Akaashi_! And I don’t _love_ love you, y’know what I mean? I – ”

He cuts off, horrified, freezing with his mouth still open in a thoughtless smile, and all Kuroo can think is, _he love loves me_ , over and over _._ Before he can give himself time to regret the decision he’s closing the distance between them, grinning nervously; Bokuto barks out a thin laugh in response, and Kuroo figures they might as well dig their graves together. He pecks Bokuto on the lips, just briefly, chanting apologies to Akaashi in his head. When he draws back, Bokuto looks completely stunned. “Chill, dude,” Kuroo says, through a paper-dry throat. “I know I’m irresistible.”

A furrow appears in Bokuto’s brow. He appears to be steeling himself for a confession of some sort, maybe to clarify that he doesn’t actually _love_ love Kuroo either, or that Kuroo’s okay, but Oikawa bench presses more than him. Kuroo would rather not hear that. He takes Bokuto’s hands in his.

“Bokuto Koutarou,” he begins, voice grave, “this is a once-in-a-lifetime confession. I, Kuroo Tetsurou, humbly proclaim that I _love_ love you, in a 100% romantic way, and also that I don’t begrudge you your crush on Oikawa Tooru, because you’ve always had a thing for guys with nice hair.”

Bokuto laughs, loud and surprised; Kuroo can’t help leaning in to kiss him again.

“Congratulations,” Akaashi says. “Please be considerate of those around you when you’re in public.” The accompanying smile is brief but genuine; this is one of the things Kuroo loves about Akaashi, in a purely platonic way – how everyone is accepted as they are, with no serious complaint.

“You’re a champ,” Kuroo declares. “You know that, right?”

“I do tend to win our games of Mario Kart,” Akaashi says, and _oh_ , those are fighting words.

 

*

 

“We should talk about Oikawa,” Kuroo tells Bokuto, when the high of that evening has settled into a comfortable contentment, spreading through him from every press of their bodies together. “He likes you back, you know.”

“I’m not going to cheat on you,” Bokuto replies, affronted. “I’m gonna be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“Not hard,” Kuroo admits, unashamed. Bokuto’s well worth waiting for.

Bokuto whoops. “I knew that,” he gloats. “Just wanted to hear you say it.”

“My point is,” Kuroo continues loudly, “you like him, he likes you; I might possibly think he’s kinda fun.”

“Damn, Kuroo, that’s greedy.”

“Shut up,” Kuroo groans. He’s beginning to regret his decision to speak up; his success with Bokuto probably has made him overconfident. But he’s really not keen on having another conversation with Semi that ends in his utter humiliation. At least this way he’ll know for sure where Bokuto stands.

Bokuto is silent for a moment, considering. “I don’t mind,” he says, shrugging. “It’s what you make of it, you know? I could get over Oikawa, if you were against it. But if you’re saying you’re thinking what I am, let’s do this.”

Kuroo fist-bumps him. “Love you,” he says, smirking through Bokuto’s rising blush, his protestations of _you can’t just say that anymore, Kuroo, it’s different now_.

They serenade Oikawa on the court, Bokuto drumming out erratic beats on the volleyballs while Kuroo goes down on one knee and raps the confession of his life. “I didn’t understand a word of that,” Oikawa says after, so they sit him down to do it again properly.

This time, he agrees.

“Bocchan and Tecchan,” he laughs, taking their hands. “I’ll be in your care.”

“Kuroo was actually nervous about this,” Bokuto says conspiratorially. “He was trying to talk us out of it the whole morning.”

Kuroo colours. “Shut up, Bokuto. You almost threw up in the toilet.”

Iwaizumi comes up to them after to deliver the classic spiel. “Thanks for taking him off my hands,” he says. “Good luck.”

“No threats?” Kuroo asks, surprised.

Iwaizumi shrugs. “We’re all adults here; I’m resigned to hearing him whine about you guys at some point. We have a LINE group – me, Kenma, Akaashi.”

“I’m not even surprised,” Kuroo says, throwing up his hands. “Akaashi’s work?”

“Nah.” Iwaizumi grins. “Kenma’s.”

 

*

 

Shiratorizawa is the _worst._ “Don’t you ever get bored?” Kuroo asks, coming off yet another straight set loss.

They look at him in honest surprise. “This is the best team.”

“They really piss me off,” Kuroo mutters. “Just because they’re all fit with their outdoors work and their almighty ace…”

Oikawa nods vehemently. “Bocchan and Iwa-chan are _way_ better.”

“I’d still take any of them over Tendou,” Matsukawa says. Kuroo’s gratified to see him panting too. “I’ll cut his hot water rations if he sings that _breaky breaky heart_ thing one more time.”

“No, but Ushiwaka looks at you with those eyes, like you’re some sort of weed growing on his soil.” Oikawa folds his arms over his chest. “Definitely the worst.”

“Eh, I disagree.”

Kuroo, Bokuto, Matsukawa and Iwaizumi nod in unison.

“Akaashi knows what I mean,” Oikawa declares, undeterred. “You’re all blind, but us setters understand one another.”

Kuroo had actually been present when Akaashi and Bokuto were preparing for Nationals. Akaashi had been watching recordings while Bokuto flipped through Volleyball Monthly; Kuroo alternated between watching trick shots online and prodding Bokuto for attention.

“We’re at a disadvantage if we face Ushijima-san,” Akaashi had said, eyes flicking calmly to Bokuto. “If only our ace had some of his gravitas.”

“Hey!” Bokuto protested. “I could take on that guy any day.”

“Ushijima-san is the most formidable member of an already troublesome team,” Akaashi had countered, vaguely irritable. “You would stand a better chance if you watched videos with me instead of staring at pictures of your own face.”

Kuroo leered. “Oya oya, does somebody want attention?”

And Bokuto had beamed, tackling Akaashi with fresh vigour – surprisingly, the point of the story isn’t to illustrate how cute Bokuto is when he’s playing the good senior, but to show that Kuroo knows Akaashi does indeed sympathise with Oikawa’s opinion.

“I’m not at all sure what you mean, Oikawa-san. Tendou-san is far more difficult for a team to deal with.”

“Nice one,” Kuroo snickers, ignoring Oikawa’s scandalised glare.

Tendou flings his arms around Akaashi for a fraction of a second before Semi stomps over to drag him away. “Eita, he praised me!”

“He’s clearly lying,” Semi grumbles. “You’re good, but Wakatoshi’s better.”

Tendou’s head tilts. “True,” he says, smirking. “Our Wakatoshi can’t be beaten~”

“Give us a month,” Kuroo yells. “One month of Bokuto’s training program and you guys are going _down_.”

Bokuto frowns. He takes his phone from his pocket and flips through his calendar. “Wait, I’m not sure if I can squeeze you in. I’ve been getting calls from other companies ever since I uploaded that video of us training from last Friday.”

It had been an excellent video, in Kuroo’s personal opinion. He’d left the camera on the floor by the net, so when he looked up through the VR screens he could see both Bokuto and Oikawa as they jumped up, cast in shadow by the lights above. Even Kenma had commented – _I want to train under Bokuto too,_ he’d said, not without envy. _Still_.

“I deserve better treatment than this,” splutters Kuroo, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m switching trainers.”

“I don’t think I can fit you in either,” Oikawa replies, sickly sweet – he’s clearly still holding a grudge over that earlier comment. “I only train people who are nice to me.”

“I’ll give you _nice,_ ” Kuroo growls, jabbing Oikawa repeatedly in the arm. He hopes it leaves a bruise.

“This is what I mean!” complains Oikawa, swatting at Kuroo. “I don’t like you very much right now, Tecchan!”

“Bokuto said the same thing about you, and look where we are.”

He means for it to sound teasing. Too late, he realises how much his voice has given away. Oikawa’s mouth drops open; Bokuto’s phone clatters to the ground. Kuroo feels himself turn red enough to rival his old high school uniform.

“ _Tecchan,_ you’re such a romantic~” Oikawa’s red-faced blustering is _cute_ , damn it all, and Kuroo is too far gone already to save himself.

“When it comes to the two of you,” he says, shrugging, feeling his cheeks grow even hotter.

“Cute,” sings Tendou. “It’s like those guys from the JUMP manga, isn’t it, Eita? The one we read together the other day!”

Semi frowns. “The one about competitive mobile gaming?”

“ _How Do I Split My Paycheck Between My Hundred Husbands!_ I knew you were paying attention, Eita!”

“Oi,” Kuroo protests, “there are only three of us.”

“You have to read it to understand,” Tendou says. “Ooh, are you interested? Come over tonight – we can marathon the anime too, and discuss it after, and – ”

 

*

 

Kuroo wakes in the morning with a weight on his chest and a ringing in his ears. If he waits long enough, he can almost feel it; the whirling rush of stars circling past as he spins around on a tilted axis.

“Turn it _off_ ,” Oikawa whines, breaking through Kuroo’s thoughts; beside them, Bokuto makes a long noise of discontent.

“Do it yourself,” Kuroo retorts.

“What is the good in having two boyfriends when neither of them will turn off the alarm for me?”

“Right back at you, Lazykawa.”

“Mmmrf,” says Bokuto, which probably means something along the lines of _shut up, I’m trying to sleep_ , but if Bokuto won’t wake up and say it properly nobody will understand what he means. For all Kuroo knows, Bokuto could be saying _nice one, Kuroo; you’re a much wittier boyfriend than Lazykawa there_.

The phone rings again.

“I will give you my milk bread at breakfast so you don’t have to swipe it like a common thief,” Oikawa says, pulling the blankets tighter around himself so Kuroo gets left to the full mercies of the morning air.

“I steal your milk bread _one_ time,” Kuroo mutters, mutinous, but he stretches himself out, pushing off the pillow with an exaggerated yawn.

Some things are easier than he makes them out to be – the thing with Oikawa and volleyball, for one. Kuroo never figures out why volleyball fills his lungs, lifts him higher, or how Oikawa’s hair manages to stay so soft and light, or how Kuroo ended up in a situation where he can tangle his fingers in it in the mornings, put his arm around Bokuto’s waist knowing that Bokuto will understand what he means by it.

Instead, Kuroo figures _why_ isn’t that important a question, not when he has Oikawa and Bokuto to satisfy, and Kenma to call, and a revenge match scheduled that afternoon.

He silences his phone, flops back down onto the futon, and breathes.

It’s all he needs to know.

 

 

*

 

**(sort-of-omake-but-more-related-side-story)**

Tendou smells like roses.

It takes Eita several weeks to notice, mainly because Valentine’s Day is coming up and they’re swamped with requests from certain individuals who don’t seem to realise that growing flowers actually takes time and planning, and that the compound specialises in renewable energy, not horticulture, so, Oikawa Tooru, those roses growing outside the gym are _not_ to be plucked for your makeshift bouquet.

When he does notice, it comes as a surprise.

“Are you wearing cologne?” he asks, while Tendou is ripping up weeds to the tune of _achey-breaky knotweed_.

“No?” Tendou looks appropriately confused. “Do I smell or something?”

“No, it’s not that. It was probably the oranges; they’ve been starting to ripen over the past few days.” There’s a niggling feeling inside him that twists at the words; Eita can’t be sure what makes him so certain, but he is – there’s something sweet, wafting over from Tendou. It sets off a hunger in Eita’s stomach, somehow – makes his mouth water.

Hayato nudges him. “Oi, Eita. You’re staring.” Eita turns back to his gloves, but his fingers are moving without input from his mind. He can’t drag himself away from the thought of Tendou, bowed over the dirt with his hair a vibrant red amidst the earthy greens and browns. It’s a fitting image, when Eita thinks about it. He can almost see the thorns coming out in conversation, the crooked bent of Tendou’s spine as he walks with that swaying gait of his. Above it all, there’s the way he sits sometimes, turned towards Wakatoshi as if to the sun.

“Can I have some of your roses?” Eita asks, knowing full well that now is not the best time to be asking. To his credit, Wakatoshi doesn’t ask why – or perhaps he assumes – he merely nods and asks, _what colour_ , and Eita feels only a little embarrassed asking for a deep crimson. He watches Wakatoshi retreat into his private garden, kneeling reverently by the rows of colourful blooms. Wakatoshi carves out three roses for him and ties them together with a ribbon.

“Tendou likes these,” Wakatoshi says, so maybe he does know, after all.

“Does he come by often to see them?” asks Eita, surmising that this might be the answer he’s been looking for. But Wakatoshi shakes his head.

“I showed him pictures when they were blooming.”

Eita is somewhat aware of what he’s doing – it’s obvious enough from everyone else’s reactions, from the way they retreat when he finds himself wandering to where Tendou is tending to the vegetable patches. Even so, he stands at Tendou’s door with a mix of confusion and trepidation, roses in hand, wondering why he feels such a compulsion to bring these roses to Tendou today, February 14th, when he _knows_ it’ll only serve as a source of misunderstanding tomorrow at work.

When Tendou opens the door, Eita smells roses – again, distinct from the small offering in his hands, but still of the same nature.

“This is for you,” Eita says, knowing what it looks like, what it will be taken as. He doesn’t resist when Tendou pulls him in, even as his heart begins to pound in belated realisation, the scent of roses growing dizzyingly strong. Tendou’s hair is petal-soft, his lips leaning briefly on Eita’s, and when he draws back he’s smiling, that tremulous, victorious smile he used to wear during matches.

“I like these roses,” he says. “They smell like you.”

Eita thinks, _Ah._ He replies, “I like them too.”


End file.
